Hamburger Sutorito II
by Tentaculiferous
Summary: England is making a hidden sewing sanctuary for himself off in the woods. Unfortunately, brute strength is not his forte so needs the help of one annoying American in cleaning out the heavier furniture. America has his own problems. US/UK and Franada
1. Chapter 1

Somewhere in the lovely green English countryside, England was busy sorting through an old shelf full of mechanical bits that had probably first seen the light of day somewhere in the nineteenth century. He was _still_ cleaning out his barn to make it suitable for use as a sewing and crafting area. But, unlike a certain lazy sentimental _prat_, it was taking him a very long time because he had an incredibly rich and ancient history, not because he spent half an hour crying over his first loom or anything.

So far he had spent the better part of a month cleaning out the nondescript (but cute) little stone barn, and no one had bothered him there. No annoying Francis interrupting him, no sneaky ghosty Canada lurking (so far as England could tell...) and no bigmouthed American talking about hamburgers and telling him his scones tasted like shit while he was trying to ruminate on more important things. He was a very busy man after all. Very important things to do. That he'd rather hide in a barn from his Prime Minister and not have to deal with those Very Important Things at all was completely irrelevant. Completely.

He had to get rid of that loom though. England stared at it, but regardless of how fiercely those green eyes burned at it, it wasn't going anywhere. It was just too damned heavy for him to move. He sighed and looked away. Damn it, it was in the perfect little alcove for fabric shelves. He could just see them now: happy little white wire shelves with yards and yards of gorgeous colours and sensually delightful textures... Stupid. Massive. Old. Wood. Loom. He couldn't just hack it up and destroy it; apparently his old junk was worth quite a bit to some humans. As one had explained to him a century or two ago (after nearly having a heart attack when seeing him about to throw out a 16th century amethyst pendant) they had not just monetary value, but emotional value, as pieces of a past that was far beyond what they had ever seen, or even what their grandparents had seen. It wasn't his fault. Live for a couple centuries; let alone millennia, and you accumulated a lot of stuff. Objects ceased to be very important after all that experience. Couple that with an ill-tempered nation's tendency to throw out or destroy all the sweet gifts given by enemies in better, more peaceful times, as well as a tendency to get into fights and wars and the property damage that ensued... and maybe England hadn't taken very cautious care of his personal accumulations. But he was damned well going to do a better job from now on.

And that meant not finding an axe and chopping the troublesome loom into firewood. That meant either giving up on the alcove or getting someone to help him move the loom. It wasn't that he didn't have _friends _that would help him and that he could trust to keep their lips zipped about the secret barn location. It was more like those friends were Japan and Sealand (a friend in need is a friend indeed, and England was in need) and they weren't very physically strong and that loom was _old _and _solid _and he wasn't sure if the three of them together could move it. He hated to say it, but he needed a hero. He needed America.

Unfortunately America was a very large blabbermouth who would probably tell every nation he came across about the barn, and before he knew it, England would be fending off that stinking frog's sweaty hands while he was trying to embroider. There was one advantage to turning to the American, however. There was no way America knew who his Prime Minister was, or any of his politicians whatsoever. For once his ignorance was actually useful.

But then there was the question of whether America was even up to snuff.

England was worried about America. Not like, worried because he _cared _about America or anything, it was just that if America looked sloppy or weak or flawed it reflected poorly on England himself, since he'd raised America and been responsible for much of his development. (Not the gluttony or arrogance or poor choice in cuisine parts he had developed of course)

America had looked... less than well (and certainly less than attractive, not that England noticed such things, _of course_) when he had last come over to England's house. Kind of flabby and... fat. America had gone centuries eating the most fattening foods available, and never seemed to look anything less than slim and strong and trim. He had also had dark circles under his eyes and pasty skin. And England knew pasty skin. He was English. How very not handsome. England did not think he'd like to see him with his shirt off, casually wiping off a light bit of sweat from his forehead, whilst moving England's loom at all. Now old America, that was a different story. A less-than-slight line of drool certainly did not appear on England's chin. Nor did his eyes glaze over. Certainly not.

Snapping out of it, he dug his cellphone out of the pocket of his trousers and started skimming his way down the contact list. He'd deleted America's number in a fit of pique last week, but he'd already re-entered it. Couldn't hurt to give him a call and get him to move the loom. It wasn't like all physical changes and disfigurements lasted forever for nations. He himself had once had some truly disgusting smallpox scars that had made it very difficult to get laid for a quarter of a century. He'd regret it if he snubbed America for his current unattractiveness only to have him later regain his healthy, vigorous appearance.

* * *

><p>England had done it. He'd lured America his house. He'd done so by telling a small tiny fib, that he had seen the error of his ways and was now eager to try a Big Mac. No he could not just buy one in his own country.<p>

"Don't you remember what British cooking is like?"

British cooking, of course, was _fucking delicious_, but if it took playing up that absolutely ridiculous myth to get into America's pants—er, to get America to move England's loom for him, then why not take advantage of the hideous _slander _some nations had seen fit to spread about him?

Now he had to deal with one gross, sweaty, pasty overweight American in his kitchen who was trying to get him to eat one of his nasty burgers. Really, how could anyone diss even the worst scone when they would gladly eat something called a _Big Mac_? Even the name was disgusting.

"Iggy, wa'sh your prob'em?"

Yes, he'd brought plenty of burgers for him self as well it seemed. He had a paper sack full of them that was truly astonishing in size; England knew American restaurants served disgustingly huge amounts of food out but surely that bag's original purpose could not have been as a food container?

"Heeeeeeey Igyyyy"

"Stop spewing food and spittle everywhere, I heard you."

When you loved someone, you weren't supposed to want to hit them all the time, were you? The phrase "absence makes the heart grow fonder" must surely have been written about America. He _seemed _so energetic and refreshing and lovable when you were parted from him, but in person...

America licked some of the grease off his thumb. England couldn't help but be entranced.

"Are you finally gonna try some of my super awesome grub Iggy? You did call me out here because you saw the light..." he asked, frowning.

England had assumed he'd nibble one of the hamburgers and pronounce it _tolerable_, and then get America to move the loom. But now he was having his doubts.

For one thing, they were cold from a flight and drive that had taken hours. The grease was congealing and the buns all looked soggy. An oak leaf would be better than that wilted lettuce and the sauce dripping off of the one America held out to him made his stomach flip over. Now really, he was being _ridiculous. _There was no way this pathetic, cheap, and admittedly unappealing food could be worse than the maggoty meat, weevily moldy bread, and rats that had made up his diet on many a voyage. Surely he had not grown so soft in this increasingly soft age?

He tentatively reached his hand out for the burger. His large eyebrows were drawn up in a pensive expression, and his eyes looked slightly fearful. The burger went into his hand. It was... soft, and oddly comforting. Although he could have sworn they were dead cold, the Big Mac seemed to pulsate with a deep, inner warmth. He slowly raised it towards his mouth, his green eyes locked with America's blue ones, encouraged on by America's intense, expectant look...

He bit down. Took the bite into mouth. Chewed. Made a face. Swallowed. Walked over to the bin and threw the rest of the burger in it.

"Hey! Don't throw a perfectly delicious Big Mac in the trash!" America yelped, running over to rescue the precious Big Mac.

England rolled his eyes, sighing smugly.

"Delicious? That tasted like grease. Grease on stale bread."

He crossed his arms and smirked.

America did not respond. He was unconcernedly munching on the thrown-away burger.

"What? You are eating _that_? Ugh. You are truly incomprehensible ."

America swallowed. "Grease on stale bread?" he asked, grinning.

"I bet you couldn't cook _that _and make it safe for human consumption.

England went off. "THAT is a myth and a particularly vile, jealous one. Have you been talking to France again?"

America ignored his rants and carefully placed the sack of burgers in England's fridge.

"Clearly _you _were lying about wanting to try my awesome food! Which is awesome, and if you hadn't burned your tastebuds off with those shitty scones, you'd realize." he said, laughing loudly and obnoxiously.

"So why did you really invite me out here?"

England was silent for a moment, thinking up a good excuse that would lead America to his loom.

"I'm renovating a barn, and it's going to have a _huge _sewing room. I know how obsessed you are with size and all-"

"Uh-huh. A sewing room. Sounds gay."

England put his hands on his hips. "It is not _gay, _not that there's anything wrong with that—come see it." he said, linking one of his arms through America's and bodily dragging him out the kitchen door and down the pathway to the barn. America allowed himself to be dragged along. He'd already come all this way, he might as well see England's big gay sewing room and try to crash at his place. He really didn't feel like being alone right now at all.

At least England's place was serene and soothing and not too much like home. He did not want to be reminded of certain things he had seen in Canada, too similar to his own fair and beautiful land. All he wanted was to be far away from anything that could remind him of _that _until his wonderfully cheerful brain casually deleted or repressed the memory... the images. He shuddered.

"Iggy, I'm tiiiiired." he whined after a while. "How far is it?"

He was huffing a bit.

"The barn's only a quarter of a mile from the house. Quit complaining you dolt, we're almost there. Maybe if you spent less time shoveling hamburgers into your face and more time moving about and..."

America tuned him out. Finally, they reached the barn. England beamed.

"Well, what do you think?"

America frowned. "It's kind of plain... and little."

England fumed. "It's all one sewing room. It's _huge _for a sewing area. I bet your sewing area is tiny."

America, for once, decided to be an adult and not get into a my-whatever-is-bigger than yours. Though to be honest, he hoped England's sewing area didn't represent certain anatomical bits of his. Because really, this barn was not very big. It was actually very cozy looking. It was kind of cute and plain and little like England was. He beamed England his Hero Grin.

"Don't worry England, I Like It. Even if it is tiny."

England scowled (was that a bit of blush on his cheeks?) and pushed open the door.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm so sorry this update is so late! Especially when 2000 of the 2500-ish words have been written since September orz. RL troubles I won't go into. Thanks so much everyone who reviewed or faved though! You guys really inspire a poor fanficcer to keep on truckin'. I hope this chapter is... not horrible orz. If you catch England using any blatant Americanisms that just seem wrong, please point them out! (of course, he might have secretly been studying up on them... :D)

* * *

><p>Inside the barn was dark. There were a few windows, but they were quite small and cast their light in isolated patches on the floor. England had yet to decide how to fix the lighting problem. He counted himself lucky the barn even had electricity when it was so far from the house. Artificial lighting meant he could see more than well enough for his sewing, but it was so nice to have a large window nearby to peer idly out as one embroidered or knitted. He sighed and turned on the overhead lights. If only they would leave him alone, he could have his bay window to sew by...<p>

America (who had no sense of proper decorum, none at all) was already poking around at things.

It was both irritating (it set England's teeth on edge) and also somehow endearing. It reminded him of how inquisitive little America would explore anything and everything. Every new carriage little America came across he would sneak into and pour over every inch of it, just looking at things. This had included the funeral coach. How the women had screamed as the coffin rolled out of the coach and back onto the drive, flying open and dropping it's contents onto the ground. All due to an innocent shove by America, who was still unused to his unnatural strength.

There was also the time he had decided to practice using his newly gained reading skills by going inside the mail coach and opening all the mail. Thank God all those disgusting letters Francis had been sending him had been in French... Unfortunately, the outgoing response letters from Arthur were not, and while they weren't filled with paragraphs of carnal metaphor, there had been plenty of less-than-choice slurs and invective phrases that England was less than pleased at hearing from little America's sweet mouth.

England watched him with a sappy, nostalgic smile as America examined everything in the barn. That is, until America picked up the container full of England's knitting needles and took two out, rapping them against the wall like drum sticks, the noise jarring him out of his pleasant reminisces. He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to yell_. _Shouting wasn't something you did at people you were asking favors of. Even if it wasn't a favor at all because really, America had wronged him so many times and had never paid England back for civilizing him and giving him the (good) parts of American culture.

If anything, America owed _him _a favor, several really. But he certainly wasn't bringing up _that _old chestnut again. Logic was wasted on an idiot baby nation like America who thought one hundred years was a long time. He would just roll his eyes and think England was pathetic. England was certainly _not _pathetic, he just needed, what was that word the fairies had used? _Closure. _Really.

The sooner England got his loom moved and America on a plane back to his own crass, poorly-decorated house the better.

He cleared his throat. "

The loom is over here" _Idiot. _

England led him to the alcove.

America peered at the loom. "This little thing?" _What a piece of shit. _

"Don't worry Iggy! The hero is always ready to help little old ladies and weak British sissies move their _little _looms." He laughed.

England silently fumed as America cracked his knuckles. _Have him move the loom, __**then**__ kick his ass. _

America, smiling cockily and with a show of casualty, reached one hand out and seized the outer wood frame of the loom, lightly tugging his hand upwards.

Nothing happened. America frowned. He gripped with both hands, and really pulled this time. The loom slid forward half an inch.

England couldn't help but smirk.

"What was that about _British _sissies?"

America didn't even seem to notice the remark. "Wha—but...how?"

He looked genuinely freaked. England just watched as he continued to struggle to make it budge. He pulled on various parts of the loom, managed only to break one of the warp beams (England was enjoying the sight of his failure too much to care), and then resorted to bracing against the alcove wall and really shoving. Nothing.

Finally, he gave up, red-faced and panting.

"It's cursed." he said crossly. "You had Harry Potter do his magic mumbo-jumbo on it and make it unmovable."

"You idiot, Harry Potter isn't real."

"And _fairies _are?"

"... Besides, my magical skills are sufficient enough to curse something without seeking help from _Harry Potter. _Who I'll sic on you if you don't shut up. "

America snorted. England crossed his arms and stared at the loom. '_There goes my fabric corner. '_ He thought, depressed. Maybe it really _was _a cursed loom. There was a precedent for that sort of thing, or did that only apply to spinning wheels? Really, the amount of haunted furniture in his house was getting ridiculous. Busby's Chair, that damned glory box in the attic that occasionally leaked blood _for no apparent reason_, and now a creepy unmovable loom. Oh well, nothing to be done about it, at least for now. Shaking his head, he turned to America.

America looked depressed as well. Well, depressed was putting it nicely. _Pathetic,_ was probably the more apt word. His eyes were tearful and he chewing on one of the cold burgers from earlier. Where he'd stored it all this time England did not even want to speculate on.

"You know, I think that loom probably _was _the cursed one I had laying around." He said, trying to be cheering.

"Yeah but..." mumbling and munching... "a little curse shouldn't stop a hero." America replied.

"Well, you can help me clear out some of the rest of this place to make up for it." England told him.

Surprisingly, America didn't object and allowed himself to be led over to a section to clear out. Clearly he was in one of his rare woe-is-me, docile moods. Oh, if only America was depressed, full of self-doubt, and creeped out all the time. England smirked, before it occurred to him that this was a rather Russia-like desire, which quickly wiped the mirth off his face.

"If it looks like it might be valuable put if over there." England said, pointing. "Otherwise, junk it."

* * *

><p>"Must you cry over every old trinket and piece of junk, you sentimental <em>girl<em>?" England snapped, yanking the picture out of America's hands to keep it from falling when America began sniffling and wiping at his eyes.

England looked at it.

"You don't understand England. It was... horrible." America said, covering his face dramatically with his hands.

England looked skeptical. "If you won't even tell me what _it _was and keep acting like an over dramatic ninny, then I'm going to assume you're just acting like the big _baby _nation you are." he said,

He looked down at the painting in his hands. It was an old portrait of France and Canada. England couldn't tell precisely when it had been commissioned. Some time before the eighties, as Francis wouldn't have been caught dead wearing boots indoors after then. It was one of Canada's that he'd brought with him after he'd been ceded to England. And people thought he didn't take care of his old objects... England felt a small gloating thrill at the fact that Matthew apparently didn't give a crap about the painting. He kindly decided that he would refrain from telling Francis about this further proof of his inferior child-raising skills. For a while. Until France teased him about America again anyway. He smugly tossed the painting into the junk pile.

America was still staring off into space looking like a kicked puppy, and looking ugly and sickly while doing it. Something must have been really wrong for him to have completely failed to respond to an insult from England.

England realized why he didn't want America demoralized and downtrodden constantly. He was extremely irritating and yet alternatively capable of evoking sympathy. It produced an endless, warring cycle in England, the urge to slap him and the urge to comfort him. Right now the slapping urge was prevailing. And the little twit had even had the nerve to _completely ignore England_. What a waste of a good insult. Nothing was more infuriating then someone who completely failed to take any notice of a person's snide remarks. England turned to America, sticking his face right up in front of his. Damned if he was going to be ignored by a pathetically junior nation like America.

"You moron, what do you have be so pathetic about? You're not even helping!" he snapped, poking America in the chest with his forefinger.

"Hey, don't poke me. And don't yell in my face either!" America replied, finally beginning to show some emotion other than pitifulness.

"I'm doing _you _a favor after all, I don't have to be here working like a slave on your stupid little-kid clubhouse. You're the one who tricked me into visiting. Kind of _pathetic _when you think about it. " America crossed his arms, smiling an angelically superior smile.

England was literally unable to respond due to the sheer amount of rage flooding through every fiber of his being. This was good because, while it meant he had to stare at America like an idiot for several seconds, it allowed him enough time for the little metaphorical lightbulb to go off in his brain, safely guiding him past the notion of responding with a potentially explosive but deliciously self-righteous condemnation of America referring to himself as "working like a slave", as well as avoiding the logical but definitely falling on deaf ears revelation of America's disgusting hypocrisy in referring to anyone else's dwellings as juvenile. No, the little lightbulb told England that while he may have been the tiniest bit deceitful in getting America to come to his house, America had been at least equally deceptive in his motives for coming. No way had he actually came all that way simply to watch England eat one of his disgusting cheeseburgers, when he could have simply brought one to the next meeting they attended together.

"Tricked you into visiting, huh?" England asked, looking much too pleased as he said it.

America was wary. England had gone from looking like an enraged beet to being calm, smiling, in just a few seconds.

"Why would you want to fly _3000 miles _to watch me eat your filth?" He asked. Then, drawing inspiration from a documentary he'd watched the night before, he added "Unless you're some kind of disgusting feeder or something."

America was caught completely and totally flatfooted. How could he even respond to an accusation like that? Certainly not with the first thoughts that spilled into his mind, which were along the lines of "Stuffing England full of junk food would be weirdly cute."

But for America, thinking about the things he said beforehand was not his style. When it came to England, his mind had long ago developed an extremely competent autopilot mode for churning out insults. He could probably be in a _coma _and still spit out some mindlessly hurtful barb.

"As if. You're the one who's always lurking around when I'm eating. Siiiick."

"That's because you're _always _eating!"

England took a deep breath and pictured that stunning old WWII poster that had become so bizarrely popular recently. Keep calm and carry on indeed. The fairies were always telling him he lost track of his priorities around America. Knowing that you were failing to meet your goals because you kept getting dragged into pointless, circuitous, childish arguments with the other person was not actually all that helpful if you still couldn't resist getting dragged into them. England certainly did not _crave _arguments with America, that would be sick. Because England was too often the one left feeling humiliated and irritable, whereas nothing seemed to effect that cheerful psychotic's mood. Priorities.

"So why did you come here then, if you're not trying to get your jollies off by making me eat sick crap?" England asked, smirking. All that practicing arguing with the fairies was really paying off.

America instantly looked so stricken that it eliminated all of England's smug satisfaction. Why did that always happen whenever he had the upper-hand with America?

"It's... it's too horrible. I can't say it." he whispered.

England frowned, but was hardly surprised. The few times America was ever bothered by anything, he'd just wander around looking miserable or unsure until one of his humans came up with some asinine plan to deal with it. Francis though it was because America so rarely had unsolvable problems that he didn't already have some idiotic plan for fixing. Creative problem-solving was not his thing. And he never wanted to 'fess up about them or ask for other nation's help.

"Could you whisper it?" England asked, then blushed as he realized how it sounded.

It wasn't that he wanted to feel America's soft plump lips trailing across his ear or anything. Especially when said nation's breath probably reeked of hamburgers and Colgate. Not that England ever sniffed his breath when they were sitting next to each other at meetings or anything. That would be beyond weird. Except that breath was a good indicator of health and dental welfare and if America ever had cavities God help him, England would rub his nose in it until it fell off. The fact that he was still being teased with that frankly tiresome stereotype when he had had perfectly fine white teeth for decades now... oh, no puppy dog look in the world, or sad, depressed state would keep him from running America or that bastard Frenchman into the ground with their hypocrisy if their teeth so much as lost their _sparkle. _

"Uhhh, ok." America said.

"Okay _what?" _ England asked, startled out of his dentally-driven revenge fantasies.

"I could probably... maybe... whisper it to you." America said, tentatively.

"Oh... erm, alright." England said.

He tucked several loose strands of tawny blonde hair back behind his ear and leaned forward at the same time America leaned down towards his ear. The feel of America's lips and soft cheek rubbing against his for a few split-seconds sent England's heart racing. Which was absolutely a rational response to have when a past enemy was so physically close. Caution-based adrenaline was obviously why his heart thudded so quickly. And then America's lips were on his ear, moving, and he stopped thinking.

* * *

><p>Birds exploded into flight off the grass outside the barn. A perfectly excusable action when one pissed-off, not-short-except-in-comparison-to-a-certain-American, swearing Englishman threw open the door and stormed out. He appeared to be a on a hell-driven journey back up the path to the house, when he abruptly stopped both walking and ranting. Turning around back towards the barn's open doorway, he called out reassuringly:

"Don't worry, I'll put a stop it it." and resisted an oddly strong desire to add "I'm the hero!"


	3. Chapter 3

England was on a plane. No one would have thought it was a special plane, the food was bad, the movie was bad, the stewardesses were mildly attractive in a bland, cookie-cutter way, and England looked extremely terrifying to his fellow cabinmates.

America, who looked as worried as England looked furious, was catching the brunt of the pure waves of anger radiating off of him. America couldn't remember a time he had looked so enraged, and was busy trying to sort through 400+ years of memories that were full of pissed-off Englishmen, while simultaneously keeping an eye on England in case he lost it and went batshit in the cabin. He was still compulsively nibbling and gnawing the few remaining hamburgers from the sack.

He was taking some particularly large, slopping chomps through a Big Mac, driven by an anxiety spike resulting from England going through one of his short periods of creepy, crazed grinning, when England snatched the bag from him.

America stared in shock at his lap, which was now missing one greasy, lumpy, originally white McDonald's bag. When he realized what had happened, he did not take it well.

" Give 'em back!" he shouted, leaning over and grabbing for the bag, which England, of course, held up out of reach.

"No way, they've got to be at least two days old now. I'm not letting you put this rubbish in your body."

It was particularly absurd that England was somehow managing to keep the bag from him, given that he had a shorter reach and probably a stiff old-man back. America was almost to the point of tears when he finally resorted to the method of bodily pushing England to the ground and taking the bag back. Well, he meant to push England off the seat and to the ground. Instead, he essentially pushed England _through _the seat and to the ground.

Needless to say the utter destruction and collapse of the airplane seat as well as the sight of one grown man sprawled on top of another cursing, shrieking, writhing man got the attention of only well, _everybody._

Fortunately, America had his hamburgers back and an America with his hamburgers back was a confident, happy one. So he was able to convince everyone that no, they weren't terrorists, and no, they hadn't been fighting, no need to turn the plane back. It was simply a defective seat, and yes, he was willing to sign a paper saying he wouldn't sue the airline.

It took all of England's considerable willpower not to chuck the smiling idiot out of one of the windows. Eating that nasty food and flirting with the stewardesses. Ha! He supposed Canada wasn't the only one to pick up bad habits from France. They wound up being seated in first class, not that it was any upgrade to England. America was still there, after all.

England was beginning to dread the prospect of the long car ride to Canada's house outside Beaverville. That fat slob America would probably insist on replenishing his supply of junk food at McDonald's. The McDonald's Issue was one of the few things he couldn't help but agree with Francis on. On that they were united. McDonald's was a fucking cancer infecting nations. Luckily it didn't seem to be an incurable infection. Iceland had kicked the McDonald's habit recently. When England formed his anti-McDonald's taskforce, he was definitely bringing him in on it.

He was brought out of these musings when he felt America fastening his seatbelt for him. Apparently they were landing.

"Ah, thanks America." he muttered.

"No problem! And uh, sorry for earlier." America replied, beaming charismatically.

England looked down. "Me too." he said, feeling more than a little ashamed.

* * *

><p><p>

They were driving through Beaverville. The streets were dark, deserted. It was well past 11:00 o'clock at night and most of the town's population was in bed, asleep in order to be able to get up for work, or school, or just because there was very little to do in Beaverville late at night. One lone convenience store was all that was available for shopping at such a time, and as for dining...

There was one restaurant that almost always stayed open later than any others. One restaurant that spread like a disease, besmirching the palates of citizens the world over.

McDonald's was open, shedding the warm golden light of it's maternal, welcoming arches on the weary travelers.

England didn't even bother fighting it. He was tired, weary, hungry, and undesiring of another fight with America at the moment. The woman manning the convenience store had looked unpleasant and rather criminal. Besides, he'd come a long way. He deserved something hot.

With America bouncing around like a kid in a candy store in the seat next to him, England slowly pulled the car into the well-lit drive-thru. The Menu glowed at him like some kind of portal to heaven, ready to deliver them into eternal bliss.

"Welcome to McDonald's! How may I help you?" the voice was young, kind and upbeat. England felt oddly uplifted.

America, of course, already knew what he wanted. He knew the McDonald's menu by heart, even the one's in other countries. Whether this was a conscious effort on his part, or some strange American power, the world may never know.

England however, was not so studious. He had really only been to McDonald's a handful of times. All he knew was that he didn't want whatever America was having.

America was having five Big Macs and two large fries, with a diet coke.

The sheer, awesome illogicality of bothering with diet soda when eating that sort of meal made England feel slightly hysterical.

He pushed the feelings down and ordered a McLobster meal, in the vague hope that it might somehow needle America that he was having a dish that wasn't actually available in the U.S. He hadn't forgotten that the pretext for their entire get-together had been him supposedly caving and wanting McDonald's.

"That actually looks kinda gross." America remarked, looking at the open box of food on England's lap.

"Everything from McDonald's looks 'kind of gross'." England said irritably.

To which America made some garbled response from his food-stuffed mouth, resulting in comprehensive communication to England, but did save him a couple of calories as a sizable chunk of bun bread flew from his lips.

England stared at him for a second and decided ignoring the prat was his best option. He turned instead to his McLobster. He picked it up, holding it gingerly in both hands. It was a messy meal, the bun overstuffed with lobster chunks and copious amounts of mayo. Despite his extreme caution, or perhaps because of it (never wise to show the powers that be that one cares for one's shirt _too _much), several mayo-y lobster chunks rolled out of the bun and onto his collar and down the front of said shirt. He could've cried.

America, very kindly and without judgment, handed him a fistful of napkins. England wiped at his shirt with them without making much difference. He picked off all the chunks but the mayo-y blobs were still there. Not exactly the look he wanted to present when he was confronting Francis... Fuck it. He went back to eating. With the ass-stomping he was going to bring to Francis he'd probably wind up tearing or dirtying what he was wearing anyway. Now he would have no compunctions about say, ripping the shirt off and strangling France to death with it.

England finished eating the meal. It took awhile; as it had the usual disgustingly large portions. He glanced over at America, who had already finished his much larger order in half the time, and had been instead apparently staring at England while he waited for him to be done. England looked away, focusing instead on wadding up the leftover wrappers.

"That... that was pretty good." England admitted.

He was expecting America to crow and mock him over this admission. Instead America did something unexpected. He reached over and hugged England, smiling.

He was always cute when he was smiling sincerely. Not that England could tell the difference between when America was being sincere or false, which drove him crazy. He was still braced for the taunts and insults as America pulled back from him.

Instead, America re-buckled his seatbelt and fished around on the floor for the MapQuest directions they'd printed out before flying over.

England cleared his throat, feeling decidedly awkward.

"So...which way is it?" he asked.

America, without a trace of any sign that he felt embarrassed or had done anything out of the ordinary, jerked his thumb back towards the road they had came off of. From there it was straight ahead to a fork in the road, with the left turn going onto the highway Canada's current residence was on.

England and America headed toward Canada's house.

Canada's house was a good twenty miles down that highway, a fact that America neglected to mention, and that was making England increasingly grumpy. Some of that grumpiness probably had to do with the quality of the road, and the fact that England had just consumed one incredibly fatty, greasy McDonald's meal. He was sure he was turning green.

Forget kicking France's ass. If he could just make it to Canada's house without stopping, he would just ring the doorbell, and, when he saw that stupid frog with his silky blonde hair and his smug face, he'd puke all over him. He could drown the world in his puke. It would be glorious and disgusting. And full of lobster chunks.

"Stop the car. "

England didn't even bother arguing. He just pulled the car over onto the shoulder. Turned the key in the ignition, shutting off the car. Ignored America's inquiry as he opened his door, walked over to the ditch, and was sick.

When he returned to the car, America once again had a fistful of napkins waiting for him. After swiftly insuring his face was clean of any vomit streaks or half-digested lobster chunks, he turned to America expectantly.

"England, I just... I don't think I can do it, I'm sorry." he said, looking like a pitiful puppy.

"What do you mean you can't do it?"

"I just... I can't go in there again."

"Oh, I see." England said, giving America a compassionate look.

America sighed, grateful. "Thank God."

"I see that your brother is being taken advantage of, used, preyed on by a sick pervert, and you just _can't _be bothered to go help him."

"That's not what I meant, England! Don't twist my words!" America snapped.

"Some hero." England went on, smirking. "Can't even stand up to to the _French." _

"I can stand up to him! I just didn't want to! Because he's so gross."

"That I understand." England said. "So quit being a ninny and start being a hero."

America sighed. He took off his glasses, rubbed them on his shirt, and stared ahead determinedly for a second. Then he turned to England and flashed him the Hero Grin, full force.

England couldn't help grinning back, and started the car again. He checked to make sure no traffic was coming, and then pulled back onto the road.

And this time, the car made it to its destination with no unexpected stops.

A/N: There is a Beaverville. But ironically, it's in America.

And England gets to drive because he is sexy driver England ;D


	4. Chapter 4

It was a quiet little bungalow house in the country. Brick and white siding, with a long porch in front. The windows were large, and open. Inside two wavy-haired blonde men were clearly enjoying a dinner together. The dishes were many, and elaborate. The fire that blazed a few feet from the table set a warm, cheery atmosphere, with a slightly romantic feel to it. The smoke from the fire could be seen floating up lazily into the sky from the chimney.

England hated to interrupt such a touching scene, but oh wait, he didn't.

Considerable strength gathered up, he rushed the door, America behind him. It wasn't even locked, but breaking it down was a good start anyway. Had to get in the proper mindset for a confrontation, and politely knocking just didn't cut it.

The door opened into the kitchen. Through the arched open door frame directly ahead of him, he could see the startled look on Canada's face as he dropped the salt shaker he'd been holding. France twisted around in his chair to look at him at the intruders, face and body as relaxed and unsurprised as ever.

"Do you mind? Or is customary to break into people's houses during dinner in your boorish country?" he inquired.

England was enraged. Eyes bulging, face red and hectic looking, apoplectic. He visibly seethed. He stalked across the room and grabbed Frances by the collar of his overpriced, expensive designer shirt.

"Don't you remember the children are off limits?" he hissed. "We had an agreement."

America, who had been lurking in the door way timidly, started at that. His eyes widened.

France was not visibly affected by being grabbed by his shirt, half-strangled by a maddened Englishman, and interrogated. Except, of course, that he showed a light amusement at the situation.

"England, kindly take your hands off me (and try acting like an adult for once, and not a spoiled child

throwing tantrums. Or some kind of enraged bull.)" The latter comparison made the small, languid smile on his face twist up in active mirth. He pulled away from England, who's hands had relaxed, only to fall to his side and ball up into fists.

"Canada and I were planning on telling you soon anyway." France said, inspecting his fingernails in a show of casualness.

"Telling? There's not going to be any telling. Just kicking your frog arse to the moon. You're not fit for the earth after having done this!"

Since he looked like he was going to explode in a fit of apoplectic rage and violence at any minute, and France would never stop goading him (whether it was intentional or not) Canada knew he had to step in. He was not the most aggressive of nations, but when he needed to stand up to someone, everyone was always surprised.

"Stop it, England. You have no say in this, and you don't even have a right to be angry. We're two consenting adults." he said, with a steely, determined look.

England was taken aback. He was definitely not used to Canada showing his backbone (and he had one, a spine of steel, as they say.) He cast about for something to say to that, but to be honest, he didn't really pay enough attention to Canada to know how to argue effectively with him. Canada had a way of slipping out of his mind and being replaced with America.

Luckily, America _did_ pay that attention to his brother, even if it didn't seem that way because he was so often blathering non-stop when he was in his presence.

"Yeah? Well you told everyone you were asexual. So the last thing we would expect is to find you _consenting _with France. on the dining table. and then on the floor. and then presumably up in the bedroom,_ if the sounds were anything to go by." _He said, the last part a whisper. Canada's face turned as red as the maple leaf on his white hoodie at that.

Still, he persisted. Continuing to explain, he said:

"I am still asexual. I just..." he shut his eyes for a couple seconds and ran his fingers through hiswavy blonde locks. Continuing to explain, he said:

"You of all people should understand, Alfred. It's..."

"It's the food." he said, opening his eyes and looking up at them. "It's delicious."

Alfred didn't get it.

England did.

"I knew it! I knew you were here, whoring yourself out for cake with this, this, disgusting wanker!"

England shrieked.

Canada flared with anger.

"It's not like that!"

"Yeah? Well I won't have it!" England said, marching over to the dining table. He began grabbing the serving dishes at random. He was heading off into the kitchen with a large bowl of steamed mussels in the crook of one arm and a plate of leeks in the opposite hand, when France stopped him.

"Ah ah ah, mon lapin. The same rules still apply for you." France said, winking at him.

"Huh?" America asked.

France turned toward him. "Do you think I give away my best dishes for free? Non, they come with a price... that I assure you is the sweetest to pay."

He blew a kiss at America. He actually fucking blew a kiss at America. He was so _dead_, he just didn't know it yet. England dropped the dishes, not even hearing them as the pretty little dishes, so tastefully decorated, hit the hardwood floor and shattered into pieces.

He was too busy launching himself at Francis, fists out. France laughed joyously as his feet flew out from under him. The only thing as good as fucking or eating his own delectable dishes, fighting. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but he ignored the lack of air in his lungs and concentrated on wrapping his long, slim fingers around England's throat. Eyes unfortunately closed (who kept their eyes open when someone's fists were connecting with their face?) he couldn't see England's

heated, enraged face, but he could feel England's pulse throbbing wildly in his throat. He dug his nails in for good measure and sighed, happily. he could never help the contented pride he felt in making England lose his cool. He was just so damned _good _at it. He never could give up practicing a skill he was naturally talented in.

Francis was just about to bring his knee up into England's groin when Canada pulled him off of him.

America had grabbed a hold of him, although France, unlike England, was not struggling wildly and violently (though uselessly) to get away and leap back into the fray.

He just shrugged languidly at the arm America had in a deathgrip (or what counted as one in America's weakened state) and America, seeing that he was calm and not going to rush across the room and try to kill England, let him go. Just his luck to be pulled off while he looked like he was on the downside to everyone else, when in fact he was just about to gloriously smash in that English bastard's balls.

England, meanwhile, was wondering when Canada had gotten so strong. Never one to show off his strength as a child, as America had done so often, it seemed particularly unfair that he was being held back so effortlessly by Canada. Canada wasn't even straining, he was as cool and unruffled as anyone England had ever seen in the middle of fight. Although the battle rage still burned hotly within him, he gave up the struggle against Canada's vicelike arms after a minute. He was just making himself look pathetic.

"Go on then. Tell me how it's right, how it's okay, for someone who _raised _you, looked after you, as a tiny child, to bribe you to have sex you don't want with them for _food_." England asked, with

more than a touch of bitterness.

Canada let his arms drop to his sides and England was free. He took a step back and stood, waiting to be answered.

Canada stared at his feet for several seconds before abruptly raising his eyes to meet England's. He was

trembling slightly, his dark blue eyes intense with emotion, as he responded.

"I don't know about _right_. I don't really care if he has some big unfair emotional advantage over me, because he helped raise me or... or whatever. I'm the one getting over in this relationship, if anyone is."

He shot a defiant look at America, who quailed from it the way he always did when Canada showed the toughness that always lurked, hidden, beneath the soft, meek exterior.

"_I_ get someone waiting on me hand and foot, cooking me anything I ask for. _I _get one of the sweetest, most charming men in the world to love _me_, to give _me_ attention. And as for bribing..." he snorted.

Canada walked over to the dining table and swiped his index finger along a bite of leek lying in a small puddle of dijon vinaigrette on his former dinner plate. Closing his eyes and tipping his chin upwards, he then rubbed his finger slowly along his lips, licking it and sucking on the end. He opened his eyes to the room's stares as he ran the end of his tongue under his fingernail for the last bit of sauce, moaning slightly.

"What?" he asked. "It's _that_ good."

"Seriously. It's beyond price. Bribing implies some kind of exchange. There is nothing worthy of being

exchanged for that. You try taking that away from me and I'll kill you." Canada said this lightly, with

a small cute smile, and a pleasant expression, which made it all the more terrifying.

England wasn't nearly crapping his pants, because he wasn't the kind of guy who got even near crapping his pants at anything, but if he was that sort of person? Oh yeah, new trousers all the way.

America was just intensely weirded out and confused, anxious, depressed, why did this have to happen to him? Why was his family so _weird_, even for nations?

"Besides," Canada said seriously, "We're married." he held up one hand to show, glittering and conspicuous, a gold ring with small, discreet and tasteful, exquisitely cut diamond.

That pretty much shut down everything England could think of to say. France, sensing the matter was closed or could be closed if they moved on at this point, stepped in.

"So...England has disposed of most of dinner, but perhaps you TWO would like some dessert? The cake is still untouched."

"HELL NO." England snapped, answering for both of them.

"It's only a cake, mon trésor en sucre. I promise, you need not pay this time. Since you already gave me

such a delectable..._encounter _earlier. "

England fumed.

America, who was always hungry and usually willing to eat anyone's cooking other than England's, had

already decided he was never eating anything France cooked again. Not after it was now so inextricably linked in his mind with France's...and his brother's... relationship. Nausea actually rose in him as he glanced at the pretty chocolate almond layer cake awaiting them at the table. He looked away, shuddering.

"No thanks... we already ate." America replied, much more politely.

"Oh? Please tell me it was nothing of England's...?"

"We stopped at McDonald's, actually." America said.

France quirked an eyebrow up at that, turning to England for affirmation.

"It's true." he conceded. He resisted his usual urge to follow up with some biting remark about it's quality. He was feeling much more kindly disposed toward America after this trip, and some part of

himself had made peace with the fact that he actually loved that greasy slop, that McDonald's. Fighting

it was meaningless, an exercise in futility. It was everywhere, it's golden, greasy warmth waiting inevery corner of the earth to welcome him it's sweet embrace.

"I had a McLobster. It was good." He admitted.

"Hmm?~ well, I suppose the McHomard is better than anything you could cook, Arthur." France laughed rather bitchily.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Canada asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Hm?"

Canada continued to stare at him, waiting for an answer. France recognized that look. The steel in him

was showing.

""It's a fucking lobster chunked on a hotdog bun, ma cherie."

"Oh? Well it's a fucking dish that's only, uniquely, served in my country, so I'd rather you didn't insult it."

All signs of amusement gone now, France retorted: "It's an atrocious crime against lobster.  
>What are you doing allowing this to be sold as food, Matthieu?"<p>

Oh no he didn't.

The fight over the sanctity of lobster and Canadian cooking went well into the deep hours of the night,

and into the early hours of the morning. But America and England didn't know that. Five minutes into the fight, four minutes after it had switched into French that America couldn't follow and England wasn't interested in, they quietly slipped out of the kitchen door and out to the driveway. They silently

climbed into the car, mission accomplished and a new sense of camaraderie about them. As they headed off the Canadian roads and onto the American highways, they talked quietly of many things, but never quite daring to touch what lay ahead for them, or what lay behind them.

As the sun broke over the horizon, England turn to America, with one thing on his mind:

"You still have to move my damned loom, you git."'

THE END?

* * *

><p>[AN] Anti-climactic huh? my mind is dreaming up the rest of what happens after England and America drive off, so there may be fic of that to come. (But that is a different story. This one is complete.) I did upload a loosely-related one-shot to maybe help clear things up if this chapter was confusing.

This was fun to write (and read!) but I feel like:

The scenes were far too rushed and

Canada was OOC. IDK, I can never get the voice of characters like him right. I don't have a meek, quiet bone in my body and well, yeah -_-

All comments and crit are loved though, so tell me what you thought! :D


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